Post Still
by i-am-mudblood
Summary: Follows the episodes after "Still", with my own scenes in between. The slow and steady development of Beth and Daryl's relationships following their spat in 4X12. DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

Beth felt the smile blaze across her face, her middle finger thrust into the air towards the house that was slowly being devoured by flame. She'd never felt so liberated, so free and refreshed. This little gesture was something of a "screw you" to her past… both their pasts.

She tilted her head and, grinning at her partner, nudged him. He met her eyes for a second before switching his crossbow to his other hand and thrusting the bird.

They stood there like that for several seconds, soaking in their newfound freedom and the strengthening of the bond between them. The flames engulfed the house completely and the heat became unbearable. Daryl finally nudged Beth towards the woods at the first sight of walkers ambling curiously toward the fire.

The sensation of heat faded from their skin as they wandered further into the woods, the only sounds being that of their carefully placed footsteps in the grass and the rhythmic clank of Daryl's crossbow. As night fell deeper, fatigue washed over them.

"I never realized how cold it gets at night," commented Beth after several minutes.

"Nah," rasped Daryl, "That'll be the moonshine."

Her eyes wandered the darkening forest before her as she hugged her elbows. Really, she didn't think she was supposed to get this tired after some alcohol. If anything, wasn't she supposed to be energetic? The mere idea of aimlessly traipsing through the woods and setting up camp exhausted her, but she dared not complain.

Luckily, Daryl voiced her thoughts. "Jesus, was that alcohol or Nyquil?" He set his crossbow in the dirt and momentarily took a seat.

"You tired too?"

He uncovered his face and studied her through the sheet of night. After several beats, he hoisted himself up and grunted, "We ought to clear a house for the night. Too much work settin' up camp."

Gratefully, Beth followed her companion through the expanse of trees and vegetation until they came upon a house just as run-down as the one they'd burned. Daryl circled the perimeter, checking for open doors or windows or perhaps a hole in the wall that could pose danger. Once satisfied, he cocked his crossbow and warily entered the front door, Beth following closely behind.

The interior was cleared of any unwanted inhabitants. Daryl found a dead body on the back porch but chose not to disturb it, instead shutting tight all doors to the house and boarding up what he could with his limited energy. Beth lit an oil lamp she'd found in the backyard and gathered some dusty blankets and pillows, spreading them in the living room.

"There," she stepped back to admire the wonder that was her makeshift bed, peering at Daryl with a tired smile as she said, "Sure beats sleepin' out in the dirt and cold, now."

He grunted with a hint of appreciation and laid the hammer and nails aside.

After a few beats of silence, Beth looked up at him. "We could… do something."

Daryl stretched himself out along the blankets, removing his shoes. "Like what," he said absentmindedly.

Beth produced a mason jar brimming with moonshine from her bag, a shy and somewhat shameful smile on her face. "I… I saved one jar of booze," she explained in response to his expression of surprise and apprehension.

"Greene-"

"We don't have to play I Never again," she promised.

He stared at her. "We still got moonshine in our systems," he said with the slightest tinge of amusement in his voice. This girl was a persistent one, wasn't she?

"I never got drunk," she argued. "I want… I want to get drunk. I want to get crazy."

"Oh, no you don't."

"I just want to know what it feels like. And what better place than this? We're safe in a house, all boarded up, all warm and cozy and together-"

"You already sound plenty drunk, Greene." Daryl suppressed a slight smile and turned away from her, reclining on his own blanket.

Beth sighed, putting her hands in her lap. "Looks like Mr. Dixon's back."

Daryl said nothing.

"C'mon, Daryl, you can have the first sip."

"What happened to you being tired, girl?"

She laid down on her own blanket, eyeing the transparent jar of booze near her. Her eyes wandered the dimly lit room until they landed on Daryl's back. Even preparing for sleep he clutched his crossbow, ready for the first sign of danger. That's what she liked about him. His entire essence radiated protection. She liked the idea that if she were in true danger, he wouldn't desert her. That was a certainty.

Eventually, he descended into a deep sleep.

As the booze trickled into her bloodstream and soaked into her brain, she watched as his breathing slowed and the rise and fall of his chest became something of a rhythm in his unconsciousness. She thought of other things she liked about him. His handling of Judith, him calling her "asskicker" and "sweetheart". Her heart had just melted when he first held the baby in his arms-his big, gruff, manly arms that had stabbed zombies in the head and shot arrows from a crossbow. He'd seemed like he could crush her, and he could, but he held Judith with the most delicate and tender touch.

She remembered the excitement and wonder in his eyes when offered to hold the baby, as if he had never been offered something so special before. She realized he probably had never held a baby, not with the life he'd led before the apocalypse.

There were other things too. He was so introverted, so stoic, yet when confronted, he became something else. Daryl had never seemed capable of controlling his aggression, yet in his eruptions Beth saw not blind belligerence but vulnerability. He cared so much, too much, and those emotions could get the best of him.

Of course, then there were his physicalities. She thought of him as attractive before the alcohol hit her system but now it seemed her thoughts on him were something different entirely. His back, broad and facing her, rising and falling with each intake of oxygen, appeared beckoning. His head rested lazily on the pillow she'd dusted for him, his arm draped over his own body with his fingers tracing the crossbow's rough frame. She knew it must be the moonshine taking over, but in that moment, Beth couldn't physically stand being alone on her side of the room.

Carefully, she hoisted herself onto hands and knees and crawled over the blankets to Daryl's figure, craving his warmth and protection, his touch. Approaching him, she watched him breathe for a few seconds before resting her head on his shoulder.

He woke instantly. Disoriented and groggy, he shifted slightly, feeling the weight of Beth's head on his shoulder. "Wha- th-" he turned more, looking at her and clutching at his weapon. "Did you hear something? What happened?"

"I think I'm drunk," she replied honestly.

He sized her up for a moment, sitting up. "Y'want some water?"

"I want to sleep next to you."

His thumb grazed the stubble on his chin. "Ya scared?"

"Something like that."

The silence of the woods clung to the air as he studied her. He always seemed to be doing that, studying her, deciphering her with his eyes. Finally, he leaned back onto his pillow and opened one arm awkwardly. Beth occupied the spot gratefully, holding on to him for dear life as a wave of headaches washed over her. She groaned into his side, repressing the pain. He curled his arm over her, staring at the ceiling.

"Sleep, Beth. You'll be fine."


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Beth woke to the sun's rays slanting across her eyes from a hole in the roof and the feeling of Daryl rubbing his thumb against the back of her shoulder. She froze when she realized she was in his embrace, curled against his frame with his arm bent over her.

"Daryl?"

Immediately, the thumb rubbing stopped and he retracted his arm, untangling from her.

She sat up on her knees and undid her hair, smoothing it and attempting to wrangle it back into a bun. "I dreamt," she said quietly.

"Hmm?" he pretended to show only slight interest as he examined each of his arrows.

"I dreamt of the farm," she said dryly. The smile on her lips and her eyes were only present to alleviate the tension, but her tone said it all. She was done wishing and missing. That stunt they'd pulled last night was her confirmation that she would bury her past beneath the floorboards.

Daryl looked up only momentarily before overexamining the arrow in his fingers. "Before the outbreak?"

"I don't remember," she said with half a chuckle, as if the dream itself were stupid. "Let's just forget about it." She finally finished fixing her hair and stood slowly, watching Daryl work so intently on his weapon. "How about we go huntin'... together?"

"You'll scare all the game," he said, not looking up from his work. "What with them heavy girly boots you got on."

"You oughta teach me to track," she said brightly.

"Tomorrow."

"Today!"

"I'll teach ya tomorrow when we got food to spare," he said, finally meeting her eyes. "That way when you screw up, at least it won't be at the expense of our stomachs."

She crossed her arms and they battled gaze for a while before she gave in. "Fine. I'll build the fire."

Daryl smirked to himself.

"But you have to drink with me tonight."

"Girl, what is it with you and drinkin'? You were a right mess last night, I had to hold y-" he stopped himself and scratched at his jaw, seeking a subject change.

"I… was a mess last night?" Embarrassment flooded Beth's tone. "Did I do something I'd regret?"  
Daryl shook his head, staring with over-intensity at a particular arrow.

"Did we-?"

"No!" he frowned at her. "Nothin' like that." He ran his fingertips along the body of his arrow. "Look, we'll drink tonight if you stop whining."

Beth observed him. "O-okay."

Daryl muttered something to himself and slung the crossbow over his shoulder, making his way to the door. Removing the armoir that blocked the entrance and unlocking the door, he glanced back at her. "You got the knife?"

She removed it from her pocket and held it up.

He nodded and disappeared, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Daryl didn't return until well into the afternoon, his sack of game tossed over his shoulder. Before Beth could say anything, he said with the slightest hint of excitement, "Found a few chickens. They look clean enough. Didn't know there'd be any chickens spare this late in."

"Chickens?" The fire in the fireplace crackled before Beth.

"Yeh, and two or so squirrels, I lost count." He heaved the sack and dumped the contents on the floor, revealing three small chickens and two squirrels, each impaled. Pleased with himself, Daryl mumbled, "Nice haul."

Beth was pleased too. She much preferred chicken and squirrels to snake.

Together, they gutted and roasted the animals on a makeshift spit. Beth had found salt in the cupboards of the home and said it could be used both for flavor and preservation. Their meal that night was pleasant and wordless, sharing a chicken and a squirrel and with plenty left over for the next two or so days.

As they finished off their meals and the outside light dimmed to black, Beth relit the oil lamp and uncovered her moonshine jar, smelling it. "Ready?"

Daryl settled onto the ground, snorting.

"Okay. I never-"

"I thought you said we was done with that game," he accused.

"Okay… well, then what? We just drink?"

After a moment of contemplation, he waved his hand at her. "Just go. Might as well pass the time."

"I never went hunting."

He half chuckled. "Still not much of a game," he commented, taking a swig of moonshine.

"Your turn."

"I never…" he rubbed his palm on his face, over his eyes, as if already tired of the game. "I never wore a dress."

She sipped from the jar. "That's no fun."

"That's payback."

"I never… I never held anyone's hand romantically."

Daryl's eyes flicked towards her, locking with hers. Gesturing to the jar, he said quietly, "Drink up."

"Really?"

He shrugged.

Beth sipped again and nodded at him. "You go."

"I never ate shrimp."

Beth sipped yet again. "C'mon, Daryl, make them harder."

He glanced at the floor. There were plenty of things he'd never done, but he didn't want to tell her, or anyone. There were certain things he just couldn't share without enough booze loosening him up.

"I never made out with no one," Beth said.

Tentatively, Daryl reached for the jar and took a swig, not noticing the blush staining Beth's cheeks.

"Who was it?"

He lowered the jar from his mouth and wiped some liquid from his chin. "Huh?"

"Made out… do I know them?"

His eyes searched hers before darting away. "Nah. It was years ago. I was just a kid."

"Did you love her?"

He shook his head.

Beth swallowed her other questions and pointed to him. "Your turn again."

"I ain't never been in love," he said, draping his arm over his knees.

"Like, do you mean romantically, or you've just flat out never loved anyone?"

"Romantically," he answered.

Beth bit her lip and smoothed her hair. "Okay… you drink."

Unfazed, Daryl nodded at her. "What about your boyfriends?"

"I wouldn't call what we had love."

Somewhat surprised, he took a swig.

"I never… I…" she stared at the floor and played with the glass jar. "I never had sex."

Daryl stiffened. What was this game turning into? He took the jar and took a swig, this time noticing Beth's face reddening. He mistook it for embarrassment. "Look, there ain't nothing shameful about bein' a virgin. You're young."

She looked away. "When did you…?"

"It wasn't nothing special. She was some trashy girl, a neighbor. We got boozed up and…" he shrugged.

"So… like us. Now."

He met her eyes. "Nothing like us now."

Beth folded her hands in her lap and leaned slightly forward. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

He stared at her until he couldn't anymore and rose from his seat, pacing the room once before mumbling something about needing to piss again and disappearing out the front door.

Beth tried to re-gather her thoughts but they seemed an incoherent mess. Was she seriously already drunk? How pathetic. She'd only downed maybe a third of the jar, a good three inches of booze. All she knew now was that she could think of nothing else but Daryl. Daryl kissing some girl, or playing a game like this and becoming so loose that he'd take off his shirt. His pants. He'd have his hands all over someone he didn't particularly like, but all the same, his lips would be on her, probably mumbling in that raspy, quiet way of his-

Daryl reappeared, shutting and locking the front door and replacing the armoire. He glanced at Beth as she leaned on the table clutching the mason jar and gazing up at him in a docile, unfocused way. "Jesus, Beth, you're drunk already?"

"No," she said, although she knew she was.

"We oughta stop playin' now." He collected the jar and placed it on a high shelf, then began removing his shoes.

Beth imagined him taking off his shoes. Then his vest. Then his shirt.

"Here. Drink this." He tossed her their water bottle. When she merely stared at it, he scooted over and uncapped it, tilting it to her lips. After forcing down a few gulps, he screwed the cap back on and moved back to his own 'bed', reclining against the sheets. After a momentary pause, he looked her way again. Hesitantly, he said, "Are you going to be alright tonight?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

He looked down and then back up, gesturing slightly with his arm that she was to come over. She moved slowly. The world was tilting. With each movement closer to Daryl, she could hear her pulse in her ear.

He wrapped his arm around her again and blew out the oil lamp, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. They both lay stiffly for a long while until Daryl relaxed and began to drift to sleep. Beth found comfort in the way his body moved slightly under her head, her arms.

"Goodnight, Daryl," she blurted softly before he had the chance to fully drift.

There was hesitation. "Night, Beth."


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

This time when Beth woke, the sheets beside her were cold and a jacket was draped over her figure. She picked herself up and wiped her eye with the back of her wrist. The sun was flooding the room through the ceiling hole, rays painting the wood-paneled floors and walls in white. Glancing around, she noticed that the armoire was pushed away from the door.

Beth started and stoked the fire in the fireplace and began to search the kitchen. One of the topmost cabinets had a box of crackers. She helped herself, unabashed by the staleness and rubbery texture of crackers that had long passed their expiration date.

Hours later, Daryl trampled in through the front door, carrying a bird by its legs. Its feathers were matted down with blood and an arrow pierced its breast. "Help me strip this thing," he ordered gruffly as he shut the door and replaced the armoire.

"You went hunting without me?" Beth took the bird and began plucking its feathers.

"Didn't wanna wake ya," he murmured, setting down his bow and rifling through his pack.

Beth focused on her work, clearing the bird of its feathers before twisting off its head. "How'm I supposed to learn how to be self sufficient if I don't know how to track and hunt?"

"There's no need to be self sufficient," he replied without looking at her. He couldn't bring himself to remind her that she had him, but they both know what he meant. "Here. Found these in a house a few miles down." He tossed her a bundle of new clothes.

Beth examined them, thankful that she would no longer have to wear the confining jeans soaked in dried blood and the golf tee she'd stolen from the country club, also badly drenched. "Thanks," she said quietly.

Daryl grunted in acknowledgment.

"I know there's a creek out back," she said, folding her new tank top and slacks. "We could get some water and clean ourselves."

"Find any towels?"

"There's some rags in the bathroom."

Daryl nodded. "You clean yourself first. I'll finish with this bird."

Beth located a bucket in the backyard and rinsed it thoroughly, filling it with icy creek water and carrying it back to the house. She retrieved the rags from the bath and began soaking them with water, letting loose her curls and wringing out the cloth. As she closed the door to the bathroom and stripped off her sweaty, bloody shirt, she let her thoughts wander.

The chill of the water was refreshing. She couldn't remember her last bath-it must've been at the prison. The dirt ran down to her ankles and pooled into the tub as she scrubbed off the last of it. She wrung out her drenched hair and used the remaining creek water to wash her laundry. The clothes were too badly damaged so she opted to just clean her panties.

It was then she realized she'd left her new clothes outside.

Beth opened the bathroom door a crack and called out, "Daryl?"

"I'm right here," his voice assured from the living room.

"No, I know… I left my clothes out there."

There was a pause before she could hear him moving around down the hall. His figure appeared, moving towards the bathroom. Beth reached her arm out, making sure she covered the rest of her body with the door. He approached and handed her her clothes somewhat awkwardly. To ease the tension, she smiled politely and said, "Thanks."

His hand grazed his chin, his eyes staying on her face. "Dinner's ready," he said quietly, and disappeared down the hall.

She watched him leave before closing the door and dressing. She pinned her hair up and gathered her rotting clothes, tossing it into the backyard as she went to fetch another bucket of water for Daryl's turn in the bath. At the creek, she scrubbed her hands and took several gulps, finally feeling the alcohol drain from her system. She then refilled the bucket, preparing to return to the house until she noticed something flapping against the water. Moving closer, she realized it was a fish. It was trapped between two jagged rocks and was dangerously close to escaping as the current pushed at it. Wasting no time, Beth ran it through with her dagger and dumped it in the bucket, pleased that she was able to contribute to their food supply.

With no warning, a walker staggered into the opening. It advanced slowly, catching sight of Beth and making throaty noises, ready for its next meal. Beth prepared to get it when two more followed closely behind, two children. They drunkenly ambled towards her, hissing and growling.

Beth plunged her knife deep into the skull of the adult zombie. It fell back with a final growl and clambered to the floor, a bloody, decomposed mess. The little boy walked towards her with uneven steps, his hands curled. Beth watched it with pity. He couldn't have been more than seven when he'd been bitten. It was a wonder he hadn't been a meal. She approached it, aiming her knife, when the little girl zombie quickly reached for her.

Beth staggered back, startled. The little girl was fast. With no hesitation, she sliced open the girl's neck, then pushed it against a tree trunk to finish the deed. She kicked the boy into the creek and watched him struggle to regain balance as the water carried him downstream.

Beth took a moment of silence for the kids before picking up her bucket and returning to the house, shutting the back door tight behind her. With a sigh, she realized her new clothes were already splattered with droplets of blood. Not soaked, but stained. She wiped her brow and met Daryl in the living room, who noticed her top immediately.

"You okay?" he asked, getting up and walking to her.

"Just ran into a few walkers by the stream," she said, aiming her thumb towards the back of the house. "I'm fine though."

Daryl inspected her shirt. "Damn shame, just got you these too."

"I know," she agreed. She held up her bucket. "I got a fish though. Big enough to share, I think."

"Yeah?" Daryl smirked, impressed, and looked in the bucket. "Nice big guy, too."

They sat down to their meal of fish and bird, both comforted to know that they still had two chickens and a squirrel. "At this rate, we'll be able to have a nice breakfast," Daryl commented with a mouthful of meat. He propped up one of his legs and finished off his food, gazing at her. "You still drunk?"

"I don't think so," she answered.

He nodded and slowly picked himself off the floor. "Might as well clean up now while we still got daylight burnin'." He picked up the bucket and headed for the bathroom.

"Daryl?" Beth blurted.

He stopped and turned halfway. "Yeah?"

She stared at her hands and then him. This was dumb. This was dumber than her booze mission, but she wanted to say it out loud. "I have a new mission."

He laid the bucket on the floor and turned to her, crossing his arms. "Yeah? What's that?"

"I want to do something before I die."

"You ain't gon' die, Beth."

"Not soon, I know. Hopefully. But I really want to do this."

"Spit it out, Greene."

She bit her lip and looked up to him, eyes all big and innocent. "I want to have sex."


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews and follows! It means a lot. Review some more because that's my source of motivation!

* * *

Daryl stood stagnant for ages, his gaze penetrating her inner thoughts. Beth had to look away, and back at her hands several times before meeting his eyes again.

"You still drunk?" he proposed, nodding his head at her.

"I'm not!" she insisted, throwing her hands in the air so that it fell in her lap. There was uncertainty in the back of her mind, though. Maybe she was.

A faint smirk bled through his shell and he retrieved the bucket once more, shaking his head lightly. "We ain't here to have fun."

"Fun," she repeated to herself, tasting the word.

"Drink up," he said, gesturing to the bottle of water that sat near her. "I'mma wash off a bit." He started for the bathroom, looking at her one more time. "Don't think about opening the door a peek, Greene."

Great. She would never hear the end of this.

He released a short, half-chuckle to himself before disappearing down the hallway. She could hear the bathroom door open and close. With an exasperated sigh, she fell back on her pillow and ran the tips of her fingers along the blade of her knife.

Fun.

She could hear water hitting the tub as Daryl washed up. Short slaps of liquid against the sleek surface. She could hear him clear his throat. Even the faint ruffling of clothes seeped through the door and down the hall.

Beth covered her face, embarrassed. Damn these stupid teenage hormones. They were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, for Christ's sake! Daryl was nothing but business anyway. He could never see her as more than a fellow survivor, at most a friend, someone with whom he'd developed a strengthened bond.

Maybe that's what excited her so much. That he was so serious, so focused. He would never take advantage of her, never look at her and let dirty thoughts cloud his head. He was a pure being, no matter how rough around the edges. He hunted and killed to survive. This wasn't a game to him, this was life.

She wanted to see a side to him that was excited, turned on, pleasured. She couldn't even imagine him in a state other than stoic and serious, occasionally humorous.. He would never pleasure himself, not because he felt he didn't deserve it, but because he was so intent on moving forward, because he couldn't risk letting her see him so vulnerable in that way. Sex was a privilege and enjoyment of sex was a weakness.

Daryl emerged from the bathroom, scrubbing the rag into his damp hair. He glanced at her as she watched him and quickly looked away, opting to approach the fire.

"So?" she prompted.

"Hmm?" He knelt by the fire, stoking it.

"My offer," she clarified, growing more confident now that she had analyzed the situation.

He shook his head. "You're off your rocker, girl. D'you drink the water like I told you?"

To humor him, she took a long gulp of water. "My mind hasn't changed."

He sat against the wall by the fireplace, his legs sprawled, arms crossed, studying her. Nodding his head at her, he said, "You're serious."

She nodded.

Daryl reached for his bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and placing it between his teeth.

"Is that a yes?"

His eyes stayed on her for a long while as he let the cigarette run clean, then plucked it out and tossed it into the flames. He continued to stare at her.

"What?"

"Tryin' to figure you out."

Her eyes flicked away momentarily. "There's nothin' to figure out."

He studied her for a few more seconds before clearing his throat and hoisting himself up. "When I was seventeen, I did it with this girl neighbor of ours. Real piece of work. She was dirty, two years younger than me, hair all disheveled and skin all rough." He sat by Beth, hugging his knees. "Merle was who knows where and I ended up boozing it up with this broad, right? She's into me from the start, all sulky eyes and pouty lips, you know, the whole deal."

Beth bit her lips.

"So I'm sittin' there, right, drinkin'. We're not talking… or I'm not. She's yappin' away like some chihuahua. Then she tells me her mama ain't home and starts lookin' at me in this way and I think, hell, might as well." He reclined on the floor, propping himself on his elbow. "It felt good but it meant nothin'."

Beth examined him. "Is that the only time you…?"

He chuckled once, raspily. "Heh… no."

"Am I missing out?"

"I ain't gonna lie to you."

She wrung her hands. "I almost did it. Before all this. With my boyfriend."

"What stopped you?"

"I just didn't want it to be him, y'know?" Her eyes were so big, round. Innocent. She hurriedly explained yourself. "I didn't feel like he was the one."

"Greene, if he wasn't the one, I sure ain't neither."

"It's different now," she insisted.

He scoffed. "So, what? So it's the apocalypse so it's okay for me to bang some little girl? It's okay because I'm the last resort."

Sensing him beginning to get angry, Beth quickly responded, "I'm no little girl, Daryl. And you aren't a last resort. I want this."

"You don't know what you want," he said with a hint of condescension. With that, he lied down and turned away, resting his head on his arm.

"Is that what you see me as?" Beth demanded. "After all that, after all we've gone through and talked about, you still see me as a little girl."

He didn't reply.

"You know I'm capable of handling myself! I'm not some baggage." She was beginning to get angry. "I wanted a drink and I got it! I just killed three walkers out there myself. You don't get to act like I'm draggin' you around. You don't get to act like you're babysitting me, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl turned around and faced her, standing up. He was going to get mad again, just like two nights ago. His face was already reddening. Beth prepared for an earful, but he composed himself last minute, dropping his arms. "Look. I know you're feeling all kinds of things right now. Sad, and disappointed, and alone… but fucking ain't gonna cure you or make you feel alive again. You're gonna wake up tomorrow morning regretful. You won't be able to look at me the same." He shook his head. "I can't have that, Beth. I can't have you lookin' at me weird."

Beth, in a bold moment, stood and touched his arm. Just a touch. She trailed down to his fingers and clasped them loosely, staring at their hands rather than his face. "I know you think I'm some dumb teenager who doesn't know how to cope with her feelin's. And maybe you're right. But I won't be around much longer-"

"Stop."

"You know it's true, Daryl." She met his eyes. "Who knows how long I'll be around. I want… I want to know what it feels like to be at the pinnacle of love."

"What you're askin' for ain't love. It's sex."

"I'm askin' you as a friend, Daryl. As my friend. In that moment, I'll love you."

He stared at her. Weird girl. Weird girl with words that penetrated him so deeply, weird girl with eyes that broke down his walls and made him want to talk. Weird girl who was smiling sadly at him now, whose fingers were interlocking with his.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. He considered moving away but didn't.

"Your father-" he began as a last attempt, a last reason.

"I loved Daddy, but he ain't here. He'd be okay with this." With her other hand she cupped his cheek, her thumb grazing his cheekbone, and stared into his eyes. It was such a loving, innocent stare; no seduction, no wickedness, just pure, simple love. She always had that advantage, that gaze that seemed to melt his defenses while simultaneously confusing the hell out of him.

He let her kiss him. It was just a peck, but it meant so much. It was the key to the lock. At that moment, they both knew she had the upperhand.

He let her lead both of them to the floor on their knees as she kissed his neck. Her movements were awkward and hesitant, as if making the wrong move could cause him to come back to reality and stop her. Which was true. He sat there letting her kiss him but not doing anything himself, staring straight ahead as he felt each touch of her fingers on his face, his neck. Slowly, he cupped her elbows as he did that one night when she'd hugged him, after Zach had died. He focused on the wall and didn't think much.

She pulled away and looked at him urgingly. "You have to do something, too." She said. "Otherwise, it's not the real experience."

He just stared at her.

"Am I doing something wrong?" she persisted, all fire like that day she'd been on a mission to get booze. Like this was a common type thing.

"Nah," he said quietly.

She studied him before moving closer again. It was like an on-off switch with her; from demanding to seductive, directing herself into her objective like it was her job. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers into his hair, her nose grazing his jawline.

He let her take them both down so that they lay on the blankets. "Sh-should we do it in the dark? Would that be better?" she glanced at the oil lamp and awkwardly reached over, blowing it out. The darkness washed over them and suddenly Daryl felt all the guilt wash away. No one could see them here in the dark.

Beth clumsily attempted to undo her buttons. "W-well? Don't just sit there and watch. Help me."

Daryl, amused, reached forward and undid the rest of her buttons. She shed her shirt. Not that it mattered much; he couldn't see shit in this dense darkness.

"D...do you want me to…" Beth reached for Daryl's vest warily, waiting for him to stop her. When he didn't, she gripped it and began to slip it off. Daryl grabbed her wrist, but instead of pushing her away, he took off the vest himself.

"Relax," he told her.

So this was it. He was agreeing now. They were going to do it. No regrets. No backing down.

In a moment of boldness, Beth reached for the button of his pants.

* * *

JUST A QUICK QUESTION GUYS: For the beginning of the next chapter, do you want me to go into the details of their lovemaking or should I just skip ahead to the morning after? Please respond!


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Hey guys! I'm so, so sorry. I know a ton of you wanted me to go into details about it, but I just watched the latest episode and I want to take my fic into a different direction. I love the idea of Daryl slowly falling for her first, so I want to continue on my route and strengthen there relationship before any sex. Although I do promise, when the time comes, sex will happen.

So yeah, I'm going to be following the episodes as they air, adding in my own little tidbits in between.

Don't forget to review!

* * *

Daryl watched with amusement as Beth struggled to undo his pants button.

"It's not…" with difficulty, she tugged at the material, but it was bound tight by the button. "Oh, come on."

He put his hands behind his head and turned to the side, smiling slightly. "This is a trainwreck."

"I can do this!" she persisted, annoyed, and continued attempting to pry his pants open.

After several minutes, Daryl turned away, resting on his arm. "Alright, you had your fun. Time for bed."

"How can you change your mind so quickly? Weren't you turned on?"

"Not even a little."

She pouted and remained sitting over him, straddling him, but not in a sexual way. In a I-refuse-to-get-off-because-you're-a-dick way. Sensing she wouldn't soon get off, he tilted his head and looked at her, only seeing the whites of her eyes in the dark. She frowned at him for minutes before collapsing on his chest, laughing.

"What're you laughing for?" he asked teasingly, throwing an arm around her.

She lifted her head and peered up at him, resting her chin on his ribs. "That was a mess," she whispered, suppressing giggles.

"Uh huh. See? Sex ain't all that special."

"We didn't even do it!"

"There's a time and place for that kinda stuff," he said. "Now roll on off o'me and get some sleep."

Instead, she laid on his chest, feeling her heartbeat and the slow rhythm of his breathing. "Let's go huntin' tomorrow," she said decidedly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, then." It was a nice feeling. Him lying there, staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. Her, lying on his chest, her little hands making shapes into his shirt. There was the promise of tomorrow in their heads.

Nothing yet, nothing serious. But perhaps this was the moment the seed was truly planted.

* * *

Beth held the crossbow at eye level, glancing around at the woods. They'd been traipsing the forest for almost an hour now with no sight of any animals. "What are we trackin'?" she asked, knowing Daryl was close behind.

"You tell me. You're the one that wanted to learn."

She lowered the crossbow and shot Daryl a look before directing her attention to the ground. She noted the zig-zagging tracks. "It's a walker," she said in a moment of proud clarity.

"Or a drunk."

She glanced back at him, smiling slyly. "I'm getting pretty good at this." She cocked the crossbow and moved forward. "Pretty soon I won't need you at all."

He watched her move forward, chewing on his makeshift toothpick. "Just keep tracking."

They approached a clearing in the woods when Beth spotted the walker. It knelt on the ground with its back to them, presumably eating. "It has a gun," she whispered to Daryl. They could use one of those. Carefully, slowly, she eased her way into the clearing, keeping the arrow trained on the walkers head. She warily stepped forward. For a moment she could've sworn Daryl's hand brushed her arm in an attempt to get her to be more cautious. She neared the walker.

A snare closed over her ankle.

In a moment of surprise and pain, Beth released a shaky gasp and sank to the floor. The walker took notice and turned, bringing himself to his feet with difficulty. Beth, with the trap still digging into her flesh, aimed the crossbow best she could and fired. The arrow sailed forward and buried itself in the walker's mouth… close, but not there yet.

Just then Daryl yanked the bow from her hands and swung it with all his might, knocking the walker's skull clean in half. Blood and brain matter erupted into the air. Turning his attention to Beth, he dove to the floor, his fingers prying at the trap.

Once he successfully removed it, he gently took her boot in his hands. "Can you move it?"

Her eyebrows furrowed in pain, she rotated her ankle. "Yeah," she said, calming down. "Yeah."

He pulled off her boot carefully. She clenched her fists as he took her ankle in his hand and inspected it. "Swollen," he observed, spitting his toothpick onto the ground. "Nasty, but it'll heal fast." He looked up at her. "Think you can stand?"

Beth bit her lip. "I think so, yeah."

He lifted her arm and draped it around his neck. With his other hand, he supported her side. "You alright?" he asked, hoisting her up.

"Mm hmm," she clung to him, wincing with each step.

"I think I saw a cemetery a ways back, with a funeral home," Daryl said, helping her forward. "That's our best bet while your ankle heals."

She nodded, limping along.

They reached the cemetery about half an hour later, both exhausted from the labor-intensive way they had heaved themselves through the jungle. Once the white funeral house was in sight, jagged tombstones scattered about the opening, Beth let go of Daryl.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I just-just need to sit down for awhile." She shook out her ankle, cringing.

"Alright, here we go." Daryl crossed his bow over to his front and bent his knees. "Hop on," he insisted, implying that she should climb his back.

She stared at him. "You serious?"

"Yeah. This is a serious piggyback."

Beth smiled and hopped on best she could. Daryl grunted at her sudden weight, hoisting her up to ease the pressure on his back.

"You weigh more than you look," he said, walking towards the house.

Beth kept her sights on the building. "Maybe there are people there."

"If there are, I'll handle them."

Exasperated, she wrapped her arms tighter around Daryl's neck. "There's still good people in the world."

"Good people don't survive," he commented.

Beth glanced at each passing tombstone, wondering vaguely if the people buried there had reanimated into zombies as well. The thought that beneath the ground were squirming, live beings disgusted her, causing her to turn her head away. Her eyes landed on a large tombstone that struck her in the heart.

Daryl seemed to notice it at the same exact time. She slid off and approached the grave, reading it thoroughly, while Daryl plucked some nearby flowers and placed them awkwardly yet respectfully on top.

Beloved father.

All at once, her feelings hit her. A wave of exhaustion washed over her; after her attempt at freeing herself from her grief, it would always return. She wouldn't cry. Not now, not when she wanted to get stronger. Her father was in a better place, and so was she.

Without hesitation, her hand found Daryl's, her fingers intertwining into his. He didn't seem startled and, surprisingly, didn't jerk his hand away. Instead, he bent his own fingers back to grasp hers.

The sun blanketed the cemetery in a warm light. In that moment, it was okay. Her father was okay, she was okay, and Daryl was okay. Their fingers that bound them together symbolized something. Hope, maybe. Trust. Friendship. She leaned against him; not her head, but her body, ever so slightly, and together they stood, the weight of their own souls alleviating.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys; thanks so much for all the reviews! I love reading your suggestions and predictions. Keep reviewing!

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**6**

Their fingers still interlaced, Daryl realized how long it had been. He glanced at the house, then the floor, then her. Only for a split second. She seemed to notice and hastily swiped her wrist over her eye. "Alright, I'm ready to get movin' now," she said.

"You sure?" he stared downwards, squinting at her through the sun.

She nodded, forcing a small smile and running her thumb along the side of his hand absentmindedly. He seemed to notice but restrained himself from drawing attention to it, fearing at the back of his mind that she might let go. And he didn't think he necessarily wanted that, for her to let go.

They walked between the tombstones towards the house, her limping and squeezing his hand so tightly at some point that he had no choice but to let go and give her another piggyback ride. The sun eased down on them, the graveyard relatively windless and bright. Daryl made his way towards the building as if he were in a dream, all too aware of Beth's slender arms clinging to his neck, the slight touch of her breath on his ear as she focused on other things. She read each tombstone in her mind, some out loud, and vocalized her thoughts to him occasionally.

"Loved grandmother and wife of the mayor. Sad. But I suppose she's lucky that she went before all this, and was loved," she said. "Don't you think?"

Daryl grunted in agreement, hoisting her up.

She paused for a while and then rested her chin on her arm on his shoulder. "If there are people there, I hope they're welcoming."

"I'm not so sure," he replied stiffly, all too aware of how near her face was.

"Will you… kill them? If there are, I mean," she asked quietly.

He reached the porch of the funeral home and carefully let her down, preparing his crossbow. "I'll only hurt 'em if they try to hurt you, deal?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Stay behind me, alright?" Daryl silently made his way up the porch steps and peered through the windows. Seeing no immediate danger, his fingers skimmed the brass door handle as he struggled to peek through the wooden bars against the french doors. Someone had boarded up the doors. Very neat work. Not a dead body in sight.

Cocking the crossbow, he swung the door inward and looked inside, banging the door frame a few times to alert any walkers. Once it was obvious the house was empty, he ambled inside, clearing each room.

"It's so clean," Beth commented, walking in. She observed the polished hardwood floors, the untouched furniture, the stainless walls. Of course, there was still time left to come across something like a suicide or a walker room.

"Someone's been tending to it," Daryl replied. "They might still be around." They both wandered into a room where a coffin sat open. Within was a dead body… but not of a human. It was a zombie, dressed in crisp clothes and blotched with mortician's wax. Someone had obviously been busy inputting time and energy into fixing up this walker for a funeral. Curiously, Daryl ran his fingers along the zombie's face, scraping off a layer of wax and rubbing it in between his fingers. Beth winced.

"What nutjob's been collectin' walkers and stuffing 'em in coffins," Daryl wondered aloud, glancing around the room for any sign that someone might be staying here. "Let's hope this guy doesn't come back."

"Is it so wrong?" Beth voiced. She stared at the walker with eyes that portrayed repulsion yet something else. Maybe pity.

Daryl realized he had been looking at her too long and knocked on the wood of the coffin to alleviate his internal embarrassment. "Waste of a good bed."

"You're joking," she said flatly, and began to wander out the room.

He followed close behind. The house had a smell to it. Not necessarily bad, but clean, like the insides of a fresh truck left in the sun. Not a perfumey smell but a sweet scent, very faint, and masked by the atmosphere. Lost in thought, he wasn't prepared for the sudden strike of a piano key coming from the room he hadn't yet checked. He hurried over, already aiming his bow.

"Daryl, their piano still works!" Beth sat upon the stool, excitement setting flame to her eyes. Her cheeks were so pink, distinguishable even in this dim room, that Daryl shyly brought a hand to the back of his neck.

"Damn girl, you were supposed to stay near me."

She was smiling softly, repressing the true extent of her euphoria at finding a working piano. "Come here, lemme teach you a few keys."

"We oughta clear the house before we start voluntarily makin' noise," he said, his eyes darting between her and the floor.

Resigned, she rose from the piano bench and followed Daryl down the hall. "It's a funeral home and someone's obviously been fixin' up dead people, so there has to be medical stuff round here for your ankle." Daryl ducked around a corner and disappeared down a flight of stairs, his crossbow ready. The stairway led them to a small room lined with cabinets. Taking up the majority of the room was two medical tables, each with a dead body placed atop.

Beth inspected the bodies. Like the one upstairs, they were fixed up, sporting fancy funeral attire and made up with wax. Daryl searched the cabinets, producing a bandage wrap. "Let's get that ankle wrapped." He stood in the corner, biting the bandage's package open, and noticed Beth's face as her eyes raked over the bodies. He scoffed. "Looks like somebody ran out of dolls to dress up."

"It's beautiful!" she insisted, looking at him.

He searched her eyes, surprised, before ducking his head like a wounded puppy, his fingers aimlessly picking at the bandage.

"Whoever did this… cared," she said, her hands resting on the tables. "They wanted these people to get a funeral. They remembered these things were people. Before all this. They didn't let it change them in the end."

Daryl lowered his head. She had a point. She always had a point. Her heart was too big for this world, but she could understand it more than anyone. If anything, he admired this trait about her. Her impenetrable hope for humanity in a land ravaged by undead killing beasts.

"Don't you think that's beautiful?" she asked, drawing Daryl from his thoughts. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, hers filled with wonder, hope, seeking acceptance from his. He didn't know what she must see in his eyes. Fearing she'd see too much, he looked away.

"C'mere," he said softly, unraveling the bandage and walking over to her.

She forgot about her words as their minds changed to the task at hand. She removed her boot and he stooped down, rolling up her jeans best he could. He clicked his tongue at the sight of her ankle. It was a mess, swollen and reddening, scattered with purple splotches. Carefully, he began wrapping the bandage around her ankle, top to bottom.

"Ooh," she exhaled, grimacing. "How does it look? Bad?"

"It'll get better in a few days."

"I can't go huntin' with you anymore?" Beth frowned, disappointed.

He finished wrapping and rolled her jeans back down. "If there's food somewhere round the house, we won't need to hunt."

"I doubt it."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, trailing it down to her arm. Not a suggestive touch, just a casual one. "Need help gettin' up the stairs?"

"I'm good," she promised, but he scooped her up without warning. She gasped, throwing her arm around his neck and glancing wide-eyed at the floor. Once she realized what had happened, she laughed. "Daryl Dixon, you are a true gentleman."

"Yeah, yeah." He began his ascent up the stairs.

"You takin' me to the foyer?" she continued in her best romantic voice, her act giving way to a series of giggles.

"What's a foyer?"

"Who knows? Sounds like a fancy place."

He snorted and shook his head. Daryl reached the ground level floor and moved to the staircase leading to the second floor. As he moved his way up, he became conscious of Beth leaning her head on his chest, her eyes open but dreamy, gazing at some point in the distance. "What's that look for," he asked.

She snapped back to reality. Her expression was sad. "It's just… I'm never going to get this, y'know?"

"Get what?"

"I'll never be married in a chapel. With Daddy there, with Mama and Maggie and Shawn sittin' at the pews with happy looks on their face," her voice shook but she refused to let tears fall. "I'll never have a husband carry me up the stairs to our new room." She wiped her eyes on his jacket, rubbing her face into his chest. "It's so nice."

Daryl reached the top of the stairs but continued to walk, holding her tighter.

"I'm sorry I keep crying. I keep saying I'm strong. I want to be strong, but…" she shook her head.

"Don't let anyone tell you what you're supposed'a feel," Daryl said quietly. "If you're sad, be sad, dammit."

She peered up at him with wide eyes. After a moment's silence, the only sound being Daryl's heavy boots thudding against the wood floors, Beth leaned her head on him once more and whispered barely above her breath, "Be my husband for now, Daryl."

He tensed up but refused to let it show. "We ain't playin' house."

"Just let me pretend, for a little while, while there's no walkers or bad people around. In this white house with no danger. Let me be your wife."

He brought her to a room at the end of the hall, nudging open the door. Nothing inside, he took notice of the pristine white bed and ambled over, gently lowering her onto the covers. She lay there, gazing up at him with unreadable eyes. Then, hesitantly, he bent over and planted an unsure kiss on her cheek. Embarrassed by her stunned expression, he lifted his bow and said, "I'mma check the other rooms."

He only noticed that their hands were connected when he began to leave. She smiled at him so warmly then, the light streaming in through the window and illuminating her hair, that he couldn't bear to look at her. He couldn't understand what he was feeling. He just knew the facts. She was pretty, very pretty, and he'd never thought of anyone as pretty before. There were the girls who used to hang with his crowd before all this, and they weren't pretty, they were hot or attractive. Pretty meant so much more. She had soft eyes and a warm smile and a comfort in her expression that he could drown in. She had supple, smooth skin that he longed to touch, and long tresses of hair pulled up atop her head.

And she touched him. She wasn't afraid to touch him, either, or talk to him. She didn't fear him or avoid him or ignore him. She encouraged him to speak, wanted to actually hear him, wanted to make him laugh and smile. No one had done so much for him before. No one had cared about him before.

Maybe the best thing was the way she looked into his eyes, searching, always searching for something readable. That's what showed him she cared so much. Because she actually studied him, and wanted to study him. She sought to understand him, which is more than anyone he'd ever met.

He left the room with his crossbow held firmly in his arms, but with each cleared room he could only see her standing by the window, or sitting on the floor, or curled up in the bed. He shook his head. He couldn't understand what this was, what he was thinking. This couldn't possibly be romance. It had to be something else.

He only knew the facts. He'd never wanted to protect something so much in his life.

Beth.

* * *

Don't forget to review!

The next chapter will probably be about food and pianos. Lots of fluff... maybe. Leave suggestions or ideas that you might want to see incorporated into the story!


	7. Chapter 7

Hey guys! Again thank you _so_ much for the reviews! I read every single one and they mean a lot.

Just a little clarification though; the whole "husband" and "wife" thing is a game Beth made up to alleviate the tension between her and Daryl as well as distract her from the pain and shittiness of this post-apocalyptic world. It's her way of experiencing marriage - something she's likely to never experience - even if it's just pretend, and even if her fake husband is Daryl. It's her way of pretending the world is still normal and lets her avoid her pain and fears. They're in no way actually married or even seriously romantic about each other _yet._ Daryl isn't sure what he's feeling and Beth is just kind of moving along trying to keep herself together.

Anyways, read on and leave a review loves! x

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**7**

Although entirely unnecessary, Daryl carried Beth back down the stairs. He hadn't mentioned the 'play house' thing. Maybe he'd just let her do whatever she wanted. So what if she wanted to be a pretend wife, and for him to be a pretend husband? She didn't have much else to look forward to in this world gone to shit, might as well give her that little happiness. It didn't harm anyone.

"We oughta check for food," he mumbled, helping her to the kitchen. It was a pretty kitchen, admittedly, with white wood cabinets and a large window from which spilt a roomful of bright yellow light. A house he never imagined he'd be living in, a house he could have only dreamt of before the apocalypse had hit. Something about the coziness and prettiness of it all struck a chord within him that ignited a little flame of anger. It was unfair that houses like this should exist when he'd spent his entire childhood in, essentially, a shack. Without warning, he swept a vase off the counter. It shattered to the floor, startling Beth.

Beth stared at the mess then frowned up at him, searching his face. He refused eye contact, glaring at the ground as his anger slowly waned away. The last of his fury melted, leaving embarrassment and shame in its wake. He'd already shown Beth his dark side, his inner demons, back at the moonshine shack. How could he let himself falter again?

But she didn't get angry again. Her expression was sad. She neared him (with difficulty; her ankle still throbbed) and rubbed his back, peering into his face as she did so. He allowed her to console him before he turned away and, resigned, said, "Check those cabinets. I'll look through the ones on the far wall."

"Kay."

Beth was already familiar with Daryl in outburst mode and, being the speculative person she was, could understand why. This building reminded her of the farm, with its shiny expanse of grass and nice, cozy interior. Daryl had never had that. And she knew that. And she pitied him.

Moving quickly, she inspected each cabinet and countertop and drawer, coming up short each time. She whipped open the final cabinet to find it was empty. "Damn," she cursed, shutting it slowly. "You find anythin'?"

Daryl swung open a cabinet, revealing a stock of cans, jars, sodas, waters… everything they hadn't seen since the end of the world had begun. "Whoa," breathed Beth in awe. She began plucking things out.

"It's a white trash brunch right here," Daryl noted, inspecting a jar of pig's feet.

"It all looks good to me," Beth shrugged, filling her arms with as many cans as she could hold.

Daryl began doing the same, taking jars and reading the labels. Something gradually dawned on him. "Hold up. Ain't a speck of dust on this."

"So?"

"Means someone just put it here. Could be someone's stash." Beth watched as he sorted through his thoughts, staring at the can in his grasp. "Okay, here's what we'll do. We'll take some and leave the rest." He placed the can back within the cabinet, opting to open a jar of jam.

Beth watched him. Endearment filled her eyes and tugged at her lips. "I knew it."

He popped off the jam jar's lid. "Knew what?"

"There are still good people out there." She leaned on the counter, having totally forgotten about the food, and beamed up at him, her expression brimming with admiration and amusement.

He felt his heart skip a beat but repressed the blush. Instead, he dug his fingers into the jam and sucked it off, murmuring "Mm," in brief appreciation.

"Oh, gross." Disgusted, she moved from the cabinets towards the table, her fingers twisting at the peanut butter jar's lid.

"Hey," he added, pointing at the cabinet. "Them pig's feet is mine."

She gestured at the food with a wave of her hand. "You can have it. Stuff's gross." She peeled off the plastic covering and swirled her finger in the peanut butter, licking it off cleanly. "We should ration the food, stay here as long as we can."

"We'll see."

She pulled a chair and sat in it, fully immersed in her food. Daryl ended up sitting before her on the opposite end of the table. "We got spoons," he offered, having found a drawer of seemingly clean utensils.

They ate in comfortable silence before Daryl noticed her smiling at him. She always seemed to do that, smile at him when until he noticed. "What," he said.

"You got jam, I got peanut butter," Beth pointed out, amused.

"So?"

She shrugged. "It's just… Mama used to eat peanut butter outta the jar, too. One time Daddy saw her and said it wasn't healthy, but she made him sit down and eat with her. He preferred jam."

Daryl remained silent, his spoon making circles in the jam but not scooping a thing.

Something turned on in her, like a switch, and she was in play house mode. "I love how we're so much like my parents. A good fit I think," she drawled in a dreamy voice, smiling softly at him, her eyes urging him to play along. "Don't you think?"

"Beth, I ain't never said I was gonna play along with this," he said in a low voice.

"Oh c'mon, it's fun. It's fun to pretend."

"It's lyin'."

"It's not! Who're we lyin' to? Ourselves?" She licked some peanut butter off her spoon before trying again. "Remember when you carried me up on our honeymoon night?"

He left the spoon in its jar and clasped his hands in his lap, staring at the jam.

"C'mon," she urged, smiling teasingly. "What're you afraid of, Daryl Dixon? Commitment?"

This damn girl. How would she even benefit from this lame ass game? What did she gain from playing pretend? A good time? Was it funny to her or some shit? This girl would be the death of him, he swore, with her round eyes and soft smiles, with her crazy ideas that always ended up somehow okay.

Her voice lowered, her tone sweetening. "Remember when we made love for the first time, up there in the covers?" She was full-on teasing now, trying to make him uncomfortable.

He glanced up at her, studying her in silence before pushing his chair back. "I'mma set up a perimeter," he murmured, retreating from the room.

As he disappeared down the hall, he heard her sigh, exasperated.

* * *

Daryl strung the last of the cans around the house, standing back to admire how tightly secure everything was now. He'd boarded up the windows, the doors, and the only way in was through the front door. The porch was strewn with cans to alert him if a walker were too near. He squinted up at the sky. The sun was high, halfway up, indicating a little past noon.

Crazy girl, he thought as he took a rest under the shade of the porch. Beth was a confusing one. Who in their right mind played pretend at her age, and why? He knew deep down it must be to distract her from her real pain, to make her feel better in this shitty new world. He knew she longed to lead a normal life, to be married and live in a house like this one, to not have to worry about the ones she loves dying.

He was almost sure that everyone they knew was dead, and he was positive she knew that too. It was hard to be strong, even as a man of his age. He couldn't imagine what Beth must be going through, a young woman of eighteen who'd already lost so much.

"Hell," he muttered, hoisting himself to his feet. He'd be the best damn husband Beth Greene could have ever hoped for. Even if it was just pretend.

He entered the house and shut it tight behind him.

"Daryl?" Beth called from upstairs. "Come look."

He followed her voice to the bedroom where she sat on the floor surrounded by dusty books. "What in the hell you doin'? Your ankle's not right enough to be climbin' the stairs alone."

"My ankle's just fine," she dismissed, and gestured for him to sit beside her. He contemplated it for a moment, standing in the doorway, before tentatively moving towards her. He towered above as she held up a book for him to see. "Whoever lived here wrote poetry."

"Poetry, huh," he echoed, not really interested.

"Oh come on. Don't sound so bored. They're beautiful." She flipped a page and urged him to sit down. He lowered himself slowly so that he sat beside her, propped on an arm behind her. She cleared her throat and read aloud, "Eyes so soft, love long here, the tresses of her hair flow and flow. Moonlight dances on her cheeks, lips pink, slender and small. She looks my way but I am lost. I think this man must've been in love."

Daryl adjusted himself so that he sat hugging his knees. He nodded at her when she wouldn't look away. "Why don't you read more."

She raised an eyebrow, the shadow of a smirk dancing on her lips. "Did you enjoy that one?"

He shrugged.

She flipped a few more pages and cleared her throat once more. "Judgement. Look into His face but hold her hand. Kiss her, kiss her, sweet dove, goodbye, my heart, goodbye. Farewell to the sky blue and grass, too. Sleep, sleep. Kiss her, sweet dove, and goodbye." Beth stared at the dusty page with a saddened expression. "That wasn't happy at all."

"Maybe he wrote it when this all started."

"Maybe." Her eyes stayed on the page, unseeing, before she shut the book, upsetting dust into the air. "Let's go."

"Hold up, girl, what's the change in mood."

"I'm just sick of all the sadness," she said dully. "That's all."

Daryl watched her struggle to her feet. He picked himself off the floor and, as she walked towards the door, caught up, laying his arm around her. "Maybe there don't have to be sadness."

She seemed surprised that his arm was around her, recovering only to say, "there's always sadness in this world. It's inescapable."

"I'm your husband, ain't I?"

Beth looked up at him.

"We done built this whole nice house for you, and you're still cryin'? Damn, girl, if I'da known you were so depressed, I'd've never said those weddin' vows."

Her stunned expression melted into a shy smile, eyes all happy and bright.

Daryl guided her back to the room. "How bout I read you some of these poems, huh? What do we got here…" He picked up a tattered journal and they sat side by side on the bed, leaning on the headboard. He opened it, reading the sharp script that adorned each bumpy page. "It's Monday and she's still fair. Paler than the sky. Prettier than the moon. Eyes the sun. Voice the wind. Hair the river. Love is us, and I…" Beth leaned on him, smiling at the page. He finished the poem, aware of how crackly and low his voice had become; "...love… her."

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I don't want to ruin such a sweet moment but spoiler alert: the next chapter will probably have some sex things... maybe... hmm

Review!


	8. Chapter 8

Read and review guys! Thanks so much for the lovely comments! x

This chapter is rated maybe a T.

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**8**

_She closed her eyes, tilting her head back and arching her body upward, feeling the blankets beneath her grow damper. He wasn't saying much, just his little grunts and exhales, occasionally murmuring "Shit" or "Fuck"._

_She could feel something coming. It was overwhelming, almost. Like until now there had been a build up deep inside of her, and with his help, she was ready to release. She bit down hard on her lip as he moved against her, so close that she could feel his jaw tighten with one last, long thrust._

_She could feel it coming. She was almost there._

_He held out for as long as he could, one of his hands clenched tight in her hair, and let out one shaky whisper._

_"Beth."_

Beth woke with a start. Immediate disappointment rushed over her at the instant realization that she hadn't gotten to the point of ultimate release. Panting and sweaty, she blinked her eyes and tried to locate her surroundings. The sun was beginning to set outside, setting the sky ablaze with hot pink and orange clouds. A pale pink light scattered across the room which had become dim.

She felt the bed move and turned to find Daryl fast asleep, lying on his back with one arm over his forehead and another dangling off the side. Upon seeing him, a blush rushed to her face.

She'd just had a sex dream about Daryl Dixon.

Beth watched him sleep, remembering their time in the cabin when she had tried to come on to him. He looked a little different now. Cleaner, having bathed recently, and gentler even. The book of poetry he had been reading to her lay open on his chest, and as she removed it, she noticed he had dog-eared the page to save its place.

"Daryl Dixon, when did you become so sweet," she whispered.

She shut the book and touched his hair. He needed a haircut. Maybe she'd do something about it when he woke up, maybe tomorrow. She lowered her head to the pillow beside him and stared at the ceiling as the pink light retreated slowly, imagining this must be what it was like to wake up after honeymoon night. Everything was beautiful, even the cracks in the wood or the squeak of the bed, and her lover lying beside her, sleeping soundlessly.

She remembered the sex dream and thought about how disappointed she was that she didn't get to finish it. Every thrust, every touch was still on her, and she tried to savor it until the feeling waned away. She wondered if actual sex was just as good as dream sex. Shamefully, she caught herself staring at Daryl.

To get her mind off things, she took the poetry journal and limped her way out of the room, down the stairs. In the kitchen she located the drawerful of candles she'd come across earlier and, using Daryl's lighter, illuminated each room best she could. Aside from the practicality of it all, it was romantic. The perfect post-honeymoon atmosphere.

By candlelight, she sat before the piano and flipped the poetry book open to the page Daryl had bookmarked. As she read aloud to herself, she was amazed at the relevance of it all. It seemed to speak of their predicament, and the marriage game, even the booze that had drawn her and Daryl together.

It's unclear now what we intend

We're alone in our own world

You don't wanna be my boyfriend

And I don't wanna be your girl

And that, that's a relief

We'll drink up our grief

And pine for summer

And we'll buy beer to shotgun

And we'll lay in the lawn

And we'll be good

Now I'm laughing at my boredom

At my string of failed attempts

Because you think that it's important

And I welcome the sentiment

Beth ran her fingers along each line, wondering if Daryl had done the same. Wondering if he had bookmarked that particular poem because it had meant something it him, too.

"It's unclear now what we intent. We're alone in our own world," she sang to herself habitually. She thought of her and Daryl, separated from everyone at the prison, isolated in their own little world, in this bright house away from everything else.

"You don't wanna be my boyfriend, and I don't wanna be your girl. And that, that's a relief." She thought of the cabin, of how platonic and distant they had been. There was no romance, and there still wasn't… right?

"We'll drink up our grief and pine for summer. And we'll buy beer to shotgun, and we'll lay in the lawn, and we'll be good." Their drunken fight as he played target practice with that walker. When he'd broken down in front of her, and she held him so tightly that he'd let loose tears. When they sat together on the porch later that evening, talking and talking, and later burned the house that was the gateway to his troubled past.

"Now I'm laughing at my boredom." The wedding game. "At my string of failed attempts." Sex. "Because you think that it's important, and I welcome the sentiment." Him bending to her will, him thinking of her and helping her and participating in the game. Him pretending to be her husband to humor her, make her feel better. Him finding importance in this activity.

Him reading poetry to her.

Him sleeping beside her for a midday nap.

Him carrying her up the stairs, securing the house, kissing her cheek.

Piggyback rides, flowers on tombstones, ankle wraps, peanut butter and jam.

Him.

Suddenly, Beth felt dizzy. She propped the book on the piano and held her head, rubbing her temples until the headache subsided. She felt her fingers move to the ivory keys, and as she sought out the proper chords, began to sing aloud the poem, ignoring when her cheeks became warm and wet. Over time, her voice shifted from shaky and soft to strong. With each press of the key, she felt herself become lighter.

The candlelight flickered above, hurting her eyes, but she played on.

He cleared his throat from the doorway.

Her heart rose to her throat and she whirled around, adjusting herself in the seat. Embarrassment panged within as he moved into the room. She knew how useless he thought her singing was.

"Didn't hear you wake up," he said softly, placing his crossbow on a chair. He moved to the open casket on the far wall. Maintaining eye contact, he hoisted himself in, the shadow of a grin hidden in the dim light.

"What are you doin'," she asked, her face all attitude and seriousness.

"This is the best bed I had in years," he replied, lying down.

"Really."

"Not kiddin'." He adjusted himself into the coffin, fluffing the pillow and making small exhales of appreciation.

His exhales triggered Beth's memory of her dream. His whispers and sighs as he moved against her. She blushed and stared at the floor.

His voice brought her back to life. "Why don't you keep on playin'." She looked up at him, confused. "Keep singin'." He said gently, gesturing to the piano.

"I thought my singin' annoyed you," she accused.

"Well, there ain't no jukebox," he retorted.

She stared at him, the candlelight flickering overhead and casting a warm glow on her face, contouring her cheekbones and jawline. He had to look away, otherwise he'd stare. He heard her shift and then the sound of piano rang out, in perfect harmony with her voice. Daryl glanced at her back, then the ceiling, trying to adjust himself.

It was perfect here. But he wouldn't let himself admit that. He couldn't get comfortable in any situation because he knew all too well that good things don't last.

"And we'll buy beer to shotgun. And we'll lay on the lawn. And we'll be good."

The poem.

He listened to her finish the song, drinking in every lyric, every rise and fall of her voice. When she finished, her hands lingered on the piano before she slowly turned around, adjusting herself on the bench to face him. He could see her watching him in his peripherals.

"Come here," she said suddenly.

He turned to her, pretending to have been lost in thought. He raised an eyebrow.

"I wanna teach you how to play," she said decidedly.

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm good."

"C'mon. You taught me to hunt, I teach you to play."

"Girl, you broke your ankle out there."

She giggled. "And what? You're gonna break your wrist playin' piano? Just come here."

"I'm too comfortable."

"God, you're so lazy," she said, smiling. She shrugged and faced the piano again. "Always have been lazy, I s'pose. Wouldn't even get outta bed on time for the weddin'."

So the game was continuing. "Girl I'da woken up sooner if you hadn't been yappin' on the phone all night."

"So what? I like to talk to you."

"Stressin' about the weddin' just a day before. Maybe if you'da gotten some shut-eye, you wouldn't have fallen on the cake. Hot mess."

Beth giggled at the current scenario. "I wouldn't've fallen on the cake if you weren't movin' so much! Almost cut me open with that knife."

He shrugged. "I'm nervous around knives."

Her smile descended into giggles. Even he smirked a bit, though he tried hard to repress it. She clicked her tongue. "Boy, why are you always tryin' to stop smilin'? Even after our 'I do's. Don't you love me any?"

"Yes."

The smile faded from her face. Suddenly it was different, the atmosphere. He was staring at her with those eyes, like he didn't quite understand himself, but he knew what he was saying. Was this still the game? Was she misreading him entirely?

She cleared her throat. "Let me teach you piano."

He had looked away at that point. A long pause before he said, "Hell," and pulled himself from the casket, joining her at the piano bench. She could feel the nearness of him and for some reason it was all different now. His presence meant something else entirely.

"Put your fingers here, and try not to curl them so much. Spread them out," she directed. "Alright, good. Now…" She placed her hands on top of his, matching up their fingers, and pressed the keys down.

His fingers twitched slightly as he tried to focus on the task at hand, but he couldn't help but revel in the feeling of her touch. Her hands so gentle over his.

She taught him a few keys and urged him to try them himself. He was awkward at first, saying twice that he was going to check the perimeter or get some food, but she made him stay and try. He couldn't risk failure, and she knew that, but when he tried, he played it smoothly and effortlessly the first time.

Impressed, she beamed up at him. "You're a natural."

He played some more to which she sang the lyrics. She watched him in her peripherals, her voice ringing out to the sound of each strike of the key. She could tell that, even though he tried to hide it, he was proud of himself.

And he was. He had succeeded in impressing her.

But the way he looked at the keys, with such focus and determination. Well, it was cute. She saw the same focus in him when he was about to bag a kill, his crossbow aimed. There were moments when Daryl Dixon sought to succeed. When he tried his best. And she couldn't be any more pleased with this side of him.

She broke the lyric in half and leaned up, kissing him on the lips.

* * *

_This can't be happening._

His hands found her waist, his arms brushing the confined, cushioned walls of the casket.

_This is a dream._

She had let her hair down. He'd never seen it down before, always up in a messy bun. Never curling around her face, her shoulders, falling on him now as she planted quick, soft kisses all over his face.

_She's drunk. She's crazy._

His legs were bent upward, his feet resting flatly on the casket's 'floor'. Her body was rested between them, her hands clutching the sides of his face.

They were fully clothed. He was kissing her back, his head pressing into the pillow as he watched her eyes flutter and listened to the rough, quick sighs escaping her throat. She was brushing kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, his forehead. This was different from the cabin. There was passion, affection, as if she had been holding back everything until now.

Her lips finally found his and she held them there, her force only growing when she realized he was responding with consent. He tangled his hands into her hair and their kiss grew almost violent as she bobbed her head rhythmically with his. He adjusted his legs slowly around her, sucking in a breath as her lips moved to his jaw and neck.

She squeezed her arms under her, in between them, and sidled her hands up his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her as she pressed against him, brushing kisses along his neck and shoulders. His hands cupped her head, his lips lost in her hair.

He could feel himself harden. "Fuck," he cursed, already pushing her off.

Her eyes were half open, having not predicted he would quit so soon. "What's wrong?" she whispered as he struggled to untangle himself.

"This ain't right," he said groggily, as if he'd just woken up.

"Why is it wrong?" she demanded, throwing her arms around his neck.

"It just is."

"We're married, aren't we? It ain't wrong."

"We're not playing now, Beth." He placed his hand on the edge of the coffin and tried to pull himself out.

At that point, she noticed his pants. "Oh."

Trying to conceal his embarrassment, he struggled to sit up, to leave.

Quietly, "So you did enjoy it."

"Shut up."

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I'd probably have one too if I were a boy."

He winced. "Shut up." He said again.

She tried kissing him again, but he moved away. "How many times are you going to avoid me before we actually do something?" she complained, annoyed. "We know it'll happen sooner or later, what with us bein' alone and all."

"So that's it," he said quietly. "Because I'm your only option."

"No."

"Put your hair back up. We gotta eat dinner." He finally threw his legs over the edge of the casket, but she grabbed him from behind, her arms hugging him from around his waist and placing her hands, fingers spread, against his chest. She kissed his neck, slowly.

"What are you so afraid of?"

"All you want is a quick fuck, girl, and I'm not gonna be the one to give that to you."

"I dreamed of us having sex," she admitted. She managed to pull him back enough and placed her hand on his crotch.

"Jesus," he said, jumping, and hoisted himself from the casket. "Quit it."

"You kissed me back a few seconds ago!"

"I wasn't in my right mind."

"You want me as much as I want you, Daryl Dixon, just admit it!"

He stared at her through the veil of darkness before spitting on the ground, causing her to cringe. "Go eat. I'll be right back. Gotta take care of this shit."

She glared at him. "So you'd rather masturbate than have actual sex? Are you that repulsed by me?"

"Go eat," he repeated, and left the room.


	9. Chapter 9

Again, thank you so much for the lovely comments! x

This coming episode is what will make me decide whether I want the kidnapping to happen in this story or not - just a heads up!

* * *

He was angry as he stomped out of the house. The icy chill of night air whipped against him as he trudged his way to the forest. After relieving himself, he sank into the grass and stared up at the stars, muttering to himself. "Stupid, horny bitch," he whispered angrily, although as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt bad. Or wrong. As if those words could be about anybody but her.

Maybe that was it. Sexuality. He'd associated sex with those god awful white trash broads that used to hang around his crowd wearing daisy dukes and low-cut tops. Those girls with dirty hair and sleepy eyes that draped themselves all over you for some fun. And then afterwards clung to you until they found someone new.

Daryl had a lot of experience. Before all this, with Merle, he wasn't exactly the most timid. In fact, he was nothing like himself now. Not stoic. Not quiet and calculating. Not observant. No, he acted with his mouth and his anger, and of course the desire to have sex, one of the most basic human needs, was something he was granted when he wanted it. Rape was never an option; redneck or not, he still had some shred of morality. No, these girls were always available for an overnight stay at a motel.

Sex to Daryl was considered something loveless. Just basic human need. He couldn't even begin to explain the disappointment that bubbled within him at the thought that Beth might just be interested in fulfilling this urge. Of course, she was a teenager who had never done it, it was only natural.

Then again, why should he care so much? If sex was loveless, why was he refusing to touch Beth? There was no love between them… there couldn't be. It was impossible. She'd never fall for someone like him, with her big eyes, so interested and curious. With her hair that shook down her back in waves. With her smile, or her laugh, or her stupid jokes that sometimes coaxed a chuckle out of him.

There couldn't be love there.

Daryl sat against a tree and stared at the house. He'd done a pretty good job boarding it up; the candlelight was completely obscured, and the only thing that contrasted the night was the house's white paint. Even that, though, was fading and peeling.

He remembered a few hours ago when he'd woken after piano music had seeped into his dream. The bed beside him had been empty. He'd grabbed his bow and walked as silently as he could down the stairs, already hearing her lovely voice fill the hall. At the doorway, he just stood. He couldn't bring himself to alert her of his presence because she'd stop singing, he knew it, so he'd leaned on the doorframe and watched her with interest. It was these moments he treasured, with the sweet lull of her voice matching a piano chord.

Wife.

That had been the first word in his head and it startled him. Confused him. So he made noise, cleared his throat, and made her stop singing. She'd looked at him, surprised, but there was something positive there. In the deepest shadows of her face she'd portrayed happiness, relief, joy to see him. She liked his presence, even if she wasn't consciously thinking it just at that moment.

He shook his head against the bark of the tree and covered his face with his hands. No. There were no feelings there. There were no feelings there. There were no feelings there. All she wants is sex and all he wants is to get through another day. They're a team, but that's it.

As the moon rose higher, he finally picked himself off the floor and headed on back to the funeral home, sighing once he realized that they were probably on bad terms with each other now. She wasn't in the front room with the piano so odds were she'd probably taken his orders and gone to the kitchen to eat. He'd promised he'd eat with her, so he hastened down the hallway towards the open door.

She was leaning forward in one of the chairs clutching a jar of pigs feet and staring at its contents, not really eating. When he walked in, her head rose quickly, meeting his eyes. She scooted the chair back and rose from her seat, advancing. He took a step back, afraid she'd try something again, but she reached him and wrapped her arms around his torso, digging the side of her head into his ribs.

He'd hugged back automatically. A force of habit that had developed only recently; reciprocating her affection without second thought.

She sniffed. "I'm sorry."

"What for."

"I don't want you to see me as some dumb horny teenager, Daryl," she said, tilting her head up to look him in the eyes. "I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."

He grunted. "Don't worry 'bout it."

"Can we start over?"

"Don't see no point."

She sniffed again and nuzzled into his chest, tightening her arms. He could smell her hair and feel her shaking subtly.

"You ain't cryin', are ya," he said, pulling her away. He placed his hands on her shoulders and struggled to look at her face through the dim lighting. Sure enough, her eyes were red and clouded with tears, but she was smiling. He searched her face, confused. "Why you smilin'?"

Beth blinked, seemingly surprised. She wiped her eyes and appeared bewildered that there were tears there. "I… don't know," she replied honestly, dragging her wrist over her cheeks. "I don't know."

He studied her for a moment before nodding at the table. "Let's dig in."

She nodded. They sat across from each other, the pile of food before them, and Daryl noticed that she had made an effort at setting everything so that it looked like a meal. On each side sat a diet cola, a jar of pig's feet, a can of peaches, and either a peanut butter or jelly jar. Concealing a smile, he gestured to the setting. "You do all this?"

She nodded.

"We got ourselves a real feast right here," he commented appreciatively, reaching for his jelly.

After a few moments of silence as they ate, Beth smacked her lips, gazing into her jar. "This peanut butter's a little oily."

"That'll happen when it's sittin' too long. Mix it a bit."

Beth stood and located the drawer of utensils, choosing a spoon to mix the peanut butter with. "We should stay here," she said quietly, rifling through the drawer.

Daryl watched her as the light flickered over her features. She didn't notice. Her hair fell in one collective wave over her right shoulder, the left side of her face towards him, exposing her profile. The candle's flame illuminated her cheekbones and jawline, raking across her pale skin in the most flattering way.

He looked away. "We'll see."

She lingered back to the table, mixing her peanut butter. Instead of sitting back down, she ambled towards him, standing in his proximity. He faced the ground but peered up at her with only his eyes through his strands of hair. "We oughta cut that," she said decidedly.

It took him a while before he realized what she was talking about. "You ain't touchin' my hair, girl."

"Daryl," she lifted the spoon from her jar and pointed it at him. "You'll look nicer with that shag outta

your face."

"What're you sayin'? I look ugly now?"

She giggled. "No, I'm sayin' you'll look cleaner. Plus, ain't it annoyin', having hair constantly in your eyes?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"I keep my hair outta my face, Daryl," she insisted, moving the spoon toward him.

In one decisive move, he licked the peanut butter off the spoon. She gasped. "You jerk!" Smiling, she

shoved the utensil back into the safety of her jar and, with her free hand, socked him on the shoulder.

He was grinning, having failed at repressing it like usual, and nodded at her. "You gonna cut it?"

"You have my word, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl leaned back, folding his arms, and shook his head. "Don't call me that."

"Why?"

"Makes me feel old. Like I'm your schoolteacher or somethin'."

"You, Daryl, are anythin' but old," she said. With that, she moved back to her seat and plopped down, scooping up a spoonful of peanut butter. "I found some scissors in the bedroom upstairs. Maybe we'll cut it later tonight."

"You're already lookin' tired," he observed. And she was. There was a worn smile on her face and her arms and shoulders were drooped. "Maybe tomorrow."

Beth met his eyes, looking like she wanted to counter him, but ultimately her fatigue won out. "Alright, tomorrow."

"Yeah?"

"It's a date."

He stiffened and went back to his jelly.

"Why do you always do that?" She asked curiously.

"Do what?"

"You stop talkin' sometimes. When I say stuff like that. Why?"

He shrugged.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" There was girlish teasing in her voice, an innocence that sparked something in him.

After a few beats of contemplation, he gestured to her jar. "Just keep eatin', Greene."

* * *

When they both decided they'd had their fill, Beth threw their utensils in the sink and started replacing the lids on everything. Daryl watched for a bit before hoisting himself up and helping her out, unaware of the pleased glances Beth shot him. She asked him if he wanted to continue their piano lesson, to which Daryl replied that it was time they get to bed.

They transported a few candles upstairs and blew out the unused ones. Beth couldn't help but admire how the bedroom looked, bathed in moonlight and scattered with small flecks of flame from the candles. It was almost romantic.

Daryl shut tight the bedroom door and pushed the chest of drawers in front of it, despite Beth thinking it unnecessary. There were no walkers out here and even if one did find it's way to the house, it would have a hell of a difficult time trying to get in through the boarded windows and doors. Plus there was a high chance it wouldn't be able to wrap its primitive mind over the thought of stairs.

Daryl located some clean clothes his size in the drawers. "This house got everything, don't it," he commented. "Don't look." He changed into the white t-shirt and plaid bottoms, shedding his heavy and soaked garments and half-assedly folding his leather vest.

Beth had never seen him in such casual attire before. It amused her. Daryl Dixon, wearer of leather vests, wielder of crossbows, cigarette smoker, zombie slayer. With a white t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

Actually, it was a nice change. She'd never noticed how nice his body was for someone like him. His arms and shoulders were toned, his stomach was flat, his chest broad… things she hadn't noticed while he wore that thick vest. Well, excluding his arms and shoulders.

"Why are you still lookin' through the drawers?" she asked.

"Lookin' for clothes for you."

"Oh."

He tossed her a large white t-shirt and some boxers. "Ain't no women's clothes."

"This'll do," she assured, inspecting them. "Thanks."

His eyes flicked to her before he turned and faced the wall, allowing her to change. As she did so, she laughed a little. "You don't have to be so modest, Daryl. I don't care if you look."

"Well, I do."

She rolled her eyes and indicated that she was done. She folded up her old clothes and made a mental note to wash them later; they weren't soaked in blood as her previous outfit had been, but there was still a lot of dirt.

The mens shirt was incredibly baggy, drooping down to just above her knee, while the boxers peeked maybe an inch or two longer. It was almost suggestive, hinting at her slender figure lost beneath that waterfall of fabric.

Daryl tried not to stare, instead glancing at the floor. He noticed her ankle then, still wrapped in cotton. He nodded to it. "Your ankle still hurt?"

She looked down at it as if she'd forgotten about it. Rotating her ankle, she shrugged. "Not a lot, no. I can walk fine now."

"It'll be hell in the morning," he predicted, running his hand along his jaw.

She pulled herself into the bed and started prodding the bandage with her fingers. He clicked his tongue. "Don't go on doing that now," he said, and sat on the bed, carefully beginning to unwrap the cotton. He inspected her ankle closely, running his fingers along the bruised flesh, and looked up to her as he moved her foot in circles with his hand. "This hurt?"

She was wincing. "Yeah."

"Alright. It'll take a few days." He replaced the bandage before reclining against the pillows, his hands under his head. "Get some sleep. We'll deal with the pain in the morning."

Beth recounted those words in her head. We'll.

She laid on her side, facing the window with her eyes open.

We'll.

There was a glare on the glass from the candles so that it was hard to see any details from the outside. Everything beside the moon seemed to blend together in one darkened muddle.

We.

She felt Daryl shift on the bed and a moment later the blanket was laid over her, up to her shoulder. He didn't say a word.

They lay in comfortable silence for a long time, several minutes, both unsure if the other was sleeping. Before long, Beth could feel the strands of her hair tug against her scalp. He was touching her hair. Very slightly, very carefully.

Beth closed her eyes.

She moved her foot under the covers and felt the fabric of his pajama pants. He didn't move away.

We'll deal with the pain in the morning.

* * *

Review!


	10. Chapter 10

Hey guys! Thanks so much for the friendly reviews!

As soon as I post this I'm going to watch the new Walking Dead ep, and this one will decide whether I'll lean towards a kidnapping in the near future. The fate of this fic rests in the hands of this episode!

Any thoughts on a possible kidnapping? Should I follow the plotline in the series or take it in a different direction? Review! x

* * *

**9**

"Yo, Greene, get your ass outta bed!"

Beth drifted slowly from her dreamy haze, sitting up in bed and running her fingers through her hair as the world solidified around her.

"I ain't gonna call you twice, Beth!"

She blinked her eyes and looked around. The dresser had been shoved away from the bedroom door, which was ajar. Daryl's pajamas were pooled on the floor. His crossbow was missing, as was his old clothes and leather vest. The poetry book, which Beth could've sworn she'd left on the piano downstairs, was atop Daryl's pillow, half hidden under the blanket.

"Beth!" Daryl's voice came from downstairs. Her first guess would be that there was danger coming, but his tone lacked urgency. It sounded like annoyment plastered over eagerness.

"Coming!" she called, pulling herself out of bed. Immediately, she regretted standing so quickly. Her ankle felt like complete and utter shit. It had swollen twice its size, evident even through the bandages, and every move felt like a muscle ripping her foot from the rest of her body. She winced as she tried to rotate her ankle.

To alleviate the pain, Beth pulled on her jeans. They were tight around her ankle and didn't allow for too much movement. She tried on the remainder of her daywear and was about to fix her ponytail when Daryl impatiently belted, "What're you doin' up there? Snoozin'?"

She rolled her eyes and hobbled as best she could to the top of the stairs. Daryl stood at the bottom, leaning on the railing with his arms crossed. Supporting herself on the railing, she began her slow descent, cringing at every misstep. Daryl hastened upward as if he had just remembered her injury and placed a hand on her side, half-carrying her down.

"What's the rush?" she asked as they continued downward.

"Most important meal of the day," was his reply.

"Bacon and eggs, hubby?" she asked, smiling.

Daryl had learned not to question the random times she decided to initiate the wedding game. "More like pigs' feet and frostin'."

"Gross."

"Don't give me that."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and she stopped him for a second, sitting on the steps and rubbing the area just above her ankle. He exhaled impatiently. "You gotta five star meal waitin' on you."

"My ankle's killing me," she complained.

Damn, Daryl thought, realizing that this would have been the perfect opportunity for breakfast in bed. He sat beside her on the steps and watched as she prodded her ankle, cringing. She poked one sensitively painful area particularly hard and gasped sharply.

"Jesus, Beth, quit touchin' it."

He let her grab her hand and helped her stand from the stairs. She inched down the hallway, limping slightly. The pace at which they moved only made Daryl more impatient. "I seen walkers faster than this," he said.

"I'm going as fast as I can," she replied.

In one move, he scooped her into his arms, carrying her bridal style. She released a squeal at the surprise and couldn't help but giggle as he nudged open the kitchen door and skirted around the table, setting her down gently.

He moved to the opposite end of the table and reached for his unfinished jelly jar. "Alright, let's dig in," he said.

Beth admired the setting. He'd put effort into setting up this weird mish-mash breakfast, and it was cute. She opened her mouth to tell him when there was a sudden rustle of cans coming from the front door. She froze and made quick eye contact with him. He was already grabbing his crossbow and scooting himself away from the table.

"Stay," he ordered, knowing full well that she'd try to follow. He disappeared down the hall.

Beth rose but the pain in her ankle restrained her from making any sudden movements. Begrudgingly, she decided it was better to obey his command.

Daryl approached the door and strained to peek through the boards. Seeing no walkers in his limited sight, he jimmied open the door and pulled it towards him slowly, feeling the trigger on his crossbow with his index finger.

To his surprise, a white dog stood alert on the porch, gazing up at him with one eye.

"Just a damn dog," he informed Beth from the front door. He considered shooting it; might make for a nice meal; besides, thing probably wouldn't last much longer in this world. Then he decided against it, realizing that blonde inside would never eat dog. Prissy.

Another thought ran through his head. A split second vision of him and Beth and the dog. Could give the thing a name, could train it, have it around for a bit. She'd like it. He imagined her face when he brought the thing inside, tattered but lovable. She'd be smiling at him with that face of hers, maybe he'd get another hug.

Daryl stooped down and put out his hand, urging the dog forward. "C'mere," he said in what he hoped was a gentle tone. The dog seemed to consider him for a second before spinning and zooming off the porch, disappearing round the house.

Daryl cursed inwardly and regained his feet, shutting the door.

Beth stood in the doorway, supporting herself on the frame. "It didn't want to come in?"

Disappointment and guilt knocked at the back of his mind, manifested through an aggressive tone. "I told you to stay," he confronted, advancing.

She didn't back down, merely blinked at him and smiled softly. "Yeah, but Daryl, you said there was a dog."

He calmed down then, gently guiding her back towards the kitchen. "C'mon. Maybe it'll come back later." He placed a hand on her arm to help her.

Instead, she reached up and took his hand in hers, interlocking their fingers. It was a feeling that always pleasantly surprised him. He was pleased that hand-holding was becoming a casual, regular thing between them; it meant that they could do this whenever he wanted.

"What'd you say to make it leave?" she asked, struggling to walk.

"Thing was half scared to death, wasn't my fault," he grunted.

She squeezed his hand. "When you were gone, I finished off your jar."

"Don't lie to me, girl."

Beth shrugged, grinning.

He eyed her for a moment before saying, "Tell you the truth, I was gonna cook the dog."

She widened her eyes and looked at him, shocked. "You're lying!"

He shrugged.

She crashed into him, hands still interlocked, and he almost stumbled. He snorted once he realized that in the process she'd hurt her ankle more. "Serves you right," he said as they entered the kitchen.

To his dismay, he found that she hadn't been lying about the jelly. He muttered to himself as he plucked another jar from the pantry and eyed her the whole time he ate, much to her amusement.

"So," she drawled. "Your hair."

He looked up.

"I think I'll just cut off an inch or two."

"You ain't touchin' my hair."

"You said I could just last night!"

"Eat my jam, feel the wrath." He scooped out a fingerful and licked it off savagely.

She crossed her arms. "You'll look better with that hair outta your face," as an added measure, she decided to implement the game, adding, "sweetie."

"What, you callin' me pet names now? Muffin?"

She giggled.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Tell you what. I let you cut my hair, you let me do somethin' to yours."

Instinctively, her hand rose to her hair. "Like what?"

"I did it for a girl once," he said in that raspy voice once.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. You gotta agree first."

She studied him warily before giving in. "Fine. Anything to get that hair outta your eyes."

He stood then, scooting back his chair and gesturing for her to get up. "Good. Me first."

* * *

Daryl sat on the stairs just behind, a leg on either side of her. She had been sitting there for maybe ten minutes, feeling the tug of her hair as he did whatever he was doing with it. At points, he would curse quietly and her hair would fall back against her as he recollected himself to start over.

She couldn't see his face but she knew what it must look like now. Focused, concentrating, determined. The same expression he wore when she taught him piano. When he was about to make a kill. The cutest face she had ever seen thus far and treasured above anything else at the moment.

"Shit," he murmured, and she could feel the tug of her hair slacken as he released it. It fell against her back for the third time.

"Why do you keep giving up," she complained, reaching her hand back and squeezing his ankle, the closest body part to her.

"This shit's harder than it looks," he answered absentmindedly, his focus gone back into the task at hand. "Needs to be perfect."

She concealed a smile.

It was nice. Rough, rugged Daryl sitting hunched over her with his hands in her hair, trying his best to do whatever he was doing, and do it well. Do it to perfection. She was amazed at how their relationship had progressed to that point; before this, all this, back at the prison, they hadn't spoken more than when necessary. Now he was near her, letting her squeeze his leg, letting her hold his hand and kiss his cheek and hug him. With his fingers in her hair, doing something that was ultimately unnecessary and useless in the grand scheme of things. He wasn't killing zombies or hunting. He was passing time. With her.

He cleared his throat, drawing her from her thoughts. "Kay." He brushed the braid over her shoulder so she could feel it.

She snorted. "This whole time, you were just braidin' my hair? Took long enough."

"Watch yourself, Greene. That there's a class A braid. Would cost you real money."

Beth ran her fingers over it. It was a messy braid, with hair falling out of the strands, a little loose. But she beamed up at him nonetheless, pleased with the effort he had inputted.

He tried to shrug it off, to look casual, but she nudged him and the tiniest shadow of a smile seeped through his shell. So small it was almost nonexistent.

"Cute dork," she said without thinking.

Daryl looked at her questioningly.

"The braid's nice," she said, opting to change the subject. She ran her fingers along it to show him.

He shrugged. "You can take it out when you want."

She rolled her eyes and started to get up. He leaned forward to help her up, taking her hands in his, and together they moved to the front room. The boarded windows let in only some filtered light, just enough to see, and Beth located the scissors that she had placed on the piano earlier. Daryl eyed them warily.

She snipped them teasingly.

"Later," he said.

"Now!"

"Later."

Her hands hit the sides of her legs. "Why are you so stubborn?"

He studied her.

"Sit down, Daryl!"

He moved to one of the seats and sat slowly, begrudgingly. She sauntered forward, the scissors dancing in her fingers. He scolded her for holding them so loosely and she giggled.

"Don't worry," she assured, taking a lock of his hair in her hand and bringing the shears up to it. "You'll thank me when I'm done."


End file.
